The Angel's Plight
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Before the choice between a scorpion and a grasshopper, even before the lament of a mask, and a journey beyond all imagination, there was only Christine. What happened during that hour before all fates were cast by the masterstroke of a trapdoor lover?


Disclaimer: I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Gaston Leroux and their respected owners.

The Angel's Plight

_The Paris_ _Opéra House_

_December 1881_

A cold and dismal silence dominated the gilded halls of the lavish Opéra Populaire, its walls silent, remote in the sense of a suspended absence that once held joy and laughter. The air of a jubilant splendour, which had previously dominated the empty corridor, now fell away into the quiet deftness that often came with the twilight hours, its remnants still echoing within the distance. Paper dancers and their lovers left only faded shadows upon the walls, their footsteps faintly heard from a distant hall, for no one—not even the most sceptical of the _corps de ballet_—ever dared to venture into the lonely depths of the western corridor—the corridor in which the new prima donna resided.

Mutterings of an affair with a son of a nobleman moved ever so furtively in the halls, shifting throughout the expanse of the opéra itself. No ear was virgin to the rumours of the tryst between the Vicomte de Chagny and his _alleged_ childhood friend.

But despite these inconsequential rumours, all else could not be as easily discounted for the opéra's newest crown jewel…

However, with this fabricated belief, no one realised the truth behind the lie. For it seemed as if God Himself had abandoned this newborn star. And for years, the unwavering faith that was innately instilled within her and the countless hours of prayer on her knees did nothing to quell the trepidation that now coursed through her soul.

Nevertheless, Christine Daaé, proud daughter of an impoverished violinist and new prima donna of the Opéra Populaire, reflected this doubt in the mirror before her, the cold, condescending waves of disbelief in her faith forcing her to acknowledge that she was once again alone, completely abandoned by those who once sought out her company.

But could she expect any less—from anyone, for that matter? Both of her parents saw to her orphaning when she was still shy of her thirteenth year, her father dying from the illness which had consumed him, promised only gentle assurances of a loving parent on the brink of something as trivial and unfortunate as death. And his one, last, unfavourable vow seemed nothing more than a lie to her now. But then…Oh, then it was everything to her; an equivalent to the vast fortune that Midas himself was rumoured to have.

To give his dearest Christine her own Angel of Music, the elder Daaé must have realised that the heavenly entity that he allegedly promised would be in the form of a man, a man who delighted in the sweetest of tortures and consequential pain of others. A man, who, in truth, was almost thirty years his daughter's senior. And a man whose fatal desire was blessed by her company in his hellish prison, five cellars below from where she now stood.

Even so, her father should have understood the emotional and unnecessary pain he would impart on his daughter by giving her this wondrous gift. It was a gift that only the most faithfully devoted daughters could ever desire, yearn to hold and regard as the most precious offering from a doting parent. And yet, it was more of a burden than anything. For in the darkest reaches of the opéra, lay the true entity that had driven fear into the hearts of those who attended its hallowed performances. A supposed phantom ignited a thousand cries of terror the night the chandelier had been cruelly torn of its moorings, thus gaining the unequivocal reputation that one _infamously_ dead could desire.

The Opéra ghost seemed to haunt her, even now.

Distraught the angel of the opéra looked away from the vanity mirror's decadent image, turning her sight from the gaudy apparition that portrayed the lovely Margarita. The golden wig that concealed her dark hair and the layers of powder upon her pale face could only obscure the momentary lack of feeling that contorted her flawless face into a mask of fortified apathy. The night and its coming events drained away any appeal she may have had for the glory of the stage.

A pale hand fell against her neck as she felt the dead instrument within remain dormant, stagnant inside the column of her ivory throat. The golden voice that had the power to make angels weep and seduce demons into a cold, forsaken grave was rendered silent in the present stillness of her dressing room.

She sighed, as her thoughts fell upon the past and its ill-ordained memories that seemed to call to her from its mordant place in time. The child who once fervently believed in her father's tales from the North had somehow stumbled into the darkness; the bitter certainty of her innocent nature diminishing as the dying rays of the sun subsided, giving in to the dark shadows of twilight.

She could no longer consider herself an ingenious child, but a confused woman caught in between. The past and future seemed to collide against her present, cruelly forcing her into a rôle she was ill-prepared for.

Her face moved into a perfect show of consternation as her thoughts dwelled upon her fate, a fate which held two possible outcomes: where she could leave with Raoul, now, and save her dear friend from the grief and anticipation of waiting, and therefore begin the life that she had dreamt of as a child. Or she could accept the second choice, and remain here for one final night, to both appease and bid her Angel—beloved teacher and loathsome deceiver—farewell.

It was difficult to explain to Raoul why she wished to stay. She was heavily aware of the danger of remaining here, knew the consequences if Erik were to ever find out what had transpired on the rooftop…

He would be furious with her. The jealousy that had embedded itself deeply within him tainted the very corridors and hidden passageways from where he watched her. And oddly enough, the subject of the young and noble Vicomte de Chagny was never mentioned in his presence.

For Raoul de Chagny was, in truth, a threat to Erik. The semblance of an age-old rivalry between two individuals who had never met in the flesh gave them the power to play a dangerous game, where Christine found herself as the pawn upon their elaborate chessboard. And with that fatal, bitter, unyielding realisation, she understood her part in this unending tragedy, for she could no longer refrain from the inescapable truth. In spite of what Raoul proclaimed, she would never be free of Erik—her _damned_ Angel of Music.

Erik would be with her until the day she passed from all thought and knowledge of the world; and through the very gates of Hell would he remain with her, soothe her with the very music that had damned her to such a lowly and torturous existence. She would never be able to elude him, nor have any false hope of escape from his voice; his condemningly beautiful song would haunt her unto the edges of eternity. Erik would somehow follow her. And even Death itself would never be able to separate him from her. She was bound to him in a way that could never be broken. And nor would it be altered by the plight of the shadow of the man—boy—she loved.

Regardless of this one failed truth, she would play her part, despite her lack of will to do so. She would appease her former master this night, even if her mind cried for her not to. For her heart, the torturous beating of her traitorous heart compelled her to stay and sing like an angel who had wandered too far from the sight of God and His hierarchy of angels.

It was this compilation that forced her to submit herself to the growing darkness that surrounded her. And once again she could feel herself give in to the coldness that seemed to seep through the walls and saturate her with its crude despondency. Her head tilted, inclining from the sadness that immersed her soul. The disembodied voice that compelled her to this faultless grace echoed its hauntingly beautiful nocturne within the depths of her aching mind.

But was it the voice of a divine angel or a malevolent devil? she silently wondered as the familiar lull of Erik's voice tormented her with the sweet rapture of release.

She idly recalled her two-week interval into Hell, and began to realise that Erik portrayed himself to be more than a mere man. From her departure of the world of light to the hadean depths that engulfed the very soul into an eternity of darkness, she felt an odd sense of elation within Erik's obscure world. To her, it seemed almost a memory from a dream, long forgotten by the waking hours of days long since passed.

In her childhood, she dreamed of darkness, dreamed of the calming, lulling sounds that the shadows emanated. She never told her father or Raoul about the serenity that she often times felt when alone. As she always believed that the dark tales of the North her father spoke fondly of were the cause of her fanciful dreams. She dreamt of angels; danced to their wondrous song, but never could she see their faces, for they were concealed, hidden from her poor sight.

Christine closed her eyes at the memory, her thoughts returning to the present. She slightly frowned from her dim recollections of the past. It seemed trivial to her now, almost absurd in the consequential notion of growing up and setting aside childish things. Raoul, her father, even her childhood—all was insignificant to her. The hollow feeling of how Raoul frequently comforted her left a dull reminder of what he used to be…

He was the saviour of her scarf, her devoted knight. The golden hair that marked him a son of the nobility had not dimmed in its appeal over the years, albeit his complexion was darker than most of his peers. Sunlight and the aristocracy, it appeared, did not go hand and hand with the strictures of society that had somehow separated them. Workers and those of the plebeian caste were marked with such a damning colour. Even so, it was one of the many unique qualities that she found in Raoul.

For not only did he possess the skilled nature of a man born of the sea, but also retained the blindness of what lay in front of him. He did not carelessly shrink back from those who worked, nor did he turn a deaf ear to any who desired to speak with him. In his eyes, all were equal…except Erik.

The unrivalled hatred that burned within Raoul's stormy blue eyes was a turbulent contrast to Erik's golden ones. The malice and contempt of a man who could dare touch—even harm a lady so young and naïve—and force her to stay with him in the darkness only spurred Raoul's desire to save Christine from the hellish demon that tormented her.

_Poor, pitiful Raoul_, Christine thought bitterly. He did not understand the ties that had inevitably bonded her to Erik. To hear his voice, to feel his tentative touch only stirred memories of a denied desire that she so secretly held within the dark confines of her heart. In truth, she loved them both.

How could she dare harm either of them? By choosing to stay this final night, she had denied Raoul the security of leaving this nightmare behind. However, by choosing to leave after the performance, she would inescapably shatter the already broken man who adored her. Either way she chose, she would live a lifetime of regret for the choice she reluctantly made.

Raoul cared for her, she knew. And yet, it was Erik's voice that beckoned to her, always pleading for her to return to him. It was his voice that uttered years of suffering by the hands of man, and years of neglect from his heartless mother. Christine inwardly seethed with mild contempt. How could a mother—any mother—instil so much spite for her only child? How could she deny it the only thing it ever truly needed?

And yet, she was planning to deny Erik the same thing. In her heart, she knew she loved him, but it was a love born of pity and sorrow, not the true, undying love that she felt for Raoul. And sadly, much to her eternal dismay, she could not live a lie and choose a man who hid his face from a world that so wrongfully condemned him.

For though she pitied him, she could never forget the villainy he inspired upon the opéra itself. The myriad of threats, Carlotta's ill turn, even the horrid death of the inquisitive stagehand, Joseph Bouquet, were minor trivialities compared to the true monster that dwelled beneath the opéra's illustrious stage.

The momentary delight she once possessed could never compare to the unending hours of fear and dread, which had consumed every waking thought that crossed her weary mind. For days, she had remained in a withered state of dissolution, her reverent silence unbroken by the fleeting hope that she could somehow escape this condemning fate and find a sense of peace at last.

But it was never to be, she reflected sadly. Erik would never let her go. Not even if she pleaded for the sweet liberation from a thousand years of beseeching his imperious majesty could she dare to hope that he would free her from the bonds that chained her to him. She would be forever bound to him, if only by the blind passion that his music inspired.

Her head inclined in abject defeat at this cold revelation, as the maddening sense of vertigo overcame her. Even with this temporary insanity, she could still hear him; feel his foreboding presence surround her with aching waves of desolate sorrow. Christine's eyes opened then, the azure orbs moving across the room to the large mirror that stood adjacent to her. She considered it for a moment, her mouth dry by the sheer intensity of what lay behind its pristine surface.

Another moment passed into the endless horizon of eternity. And then, without caution, without care, Christine moved inexorably towards the mirror, her mind vacant of thought.

A cold silence of an infinite suffering seemed to linger, and then fade out of existence as she found herself before the mirror, her gaze transfixed by the lifeless reflection within the hallowed glass. The hazy eyes of an angel reflected its listless stare, a pale face revealing only cold apathy and the personified years of despair that became her.

She was no longer the vibrant child whose father doted upon with a ceaseless love that such a weakened soul could obtain. Nor was she the timid, yet graceful, soprano who entranced Paris itself by her god-shattering voice, silencing the glorious city with the soft censure of an arresting angel. For in place of her once-divine image was the hollow, almost corpselike figure of a woman long since denied the joys of a simple death. In truth, she was the perfect illustration of a bride for her mentor.

And thus she bowed her head in disheartened shame, her silent sorrows lamented in a dismal collection of incoherent sobs. She felt weakened, inherently broken by the man she once deemed her protector—her insubstantial Angel of Music.

An ill-starred tear then fell from a lifeless eye. Hopeless was she to believe, as the cold longings of a long desired absolution that exonerated past sins befell her, made her lose her last fragment of hope. Erik had rendered her powerless, whilst Raoul furthered her dismay.

Why did it have to end as such? she questioned the pale image before her. Why did she have to choose between them? It was not only the choice of which man she longed to be with, but also which world she wished to be part of. For with Raoul, there would be no shadows, no long nights filled with the darkening dread of what truly lingered beyond the breadth of a candle's fragile light. She would have no more nightmares to haunt her, for she would not have to face that hell alone; Raoul would confront those demons with her.

And yet, she could not withdraw from the other choice completely. With Erik, she would forever be within the darkness that inspired her fear. The shadows and all that dwelled within their nebulous forms would envelope her in the cold gloom that created them. She would be the wife of a dead man, a bride whose passions betrayed all notions of morality in the name of her one damning obsession: music.

Erik would have her soul until the ending of the world, and perhaps beyond that, as she could never give herself to Raoul fully. And although she lost the one chain that truly bound her to Erik—the golden ring—she felt imprisoned by something more than mere metal. She could not betray herself into believing that all of this madness would cease the moment she renounced her life at the opéra.

The cold, indignant sting of that truth caused her thoughts to turn bitter. And as the tears cascaded down her cheeks, she felt only the wretched indignity that welled within her warring heart. To refuse Raoul, she would come to only relinquish her dreams. But to abandon Erik to this eternal hell was to forsake God and everything she loved most.

And thus she stood before the great mirror, the tangible gateway between Heaven and Hell. Her noble brow moved forward then, and leaned against its cold surface as timid fingers rose to meet it with the faltering deftness of one sentenced to a cruel death.

Was she alone to reveal her uncertainty, or did another share her pain on the other side? she idly wondered as she gently caressed the mirror with graceful fingers.

A forlorn moment of eternity passed until her hand drew itself away from her petty reflection, and rose higher to where another's face should have been. It remained there for only a moment, before it fell away from the mirror completely, its master withdrawing herself from the glass portal.

Christine stared at the ancient mirror, for its style and grandeur predated the opéra itself. The large baroque carvings on the side of its translucent surface revealed an age far older than the courtly style of the Bourbons.

Nonetheless, she turned all thoughts of awe and intrigue away, hardening her heart against the very ache that subdued her.

And just as the trepidation ran its course, a new emotion overtook her. She no longer felt anything other than cold indifference—to hell with her fear and mindless worry. To hell with Raoul and his pleadings to leave at once. And to hell with Erik whose very eyes possibly watched her even now.

Nothing mattered to her, not anymore. She would sing this night, and then allow an ever taciturn Fate to cast her destiny unto the four winds who sought only to destroy those who fell upon their disfavour. For no longer would her heart quell in fear, nor try to hold the falsified image that was coveted for her beauty alone. She was not an object to possess: she was Christine Daaé, a prima donna, and deified star of the Opéra Garnier.

She smiled then, looking once more to the mirror, and bravely moved to its side. An insolent hand then touched it, tormented it with the deft caress of a blasphemous angel. She stared beyond its glassine surface, as if daring whomever behind it to look upon her concrete visage. Her azure eyes sharpened, the watery depths moving into a turbulent storm of rigid certainty. She would sing for Erik this night. He would hear her final performance before she returned to a life of normalcy.

Yet in the rise of this unspoken fervour, her firm beliefs seemed to dissipate. And in the darkness of her own heart she realised that this final performance would destroy her, just as it would Erik. She would not only abandon him to a merciless feel of a lonely existence, but also sentence herself to a life without music, for she could not subject Raoul to the needless agonies of her only happiness. She would not, because she _loved _him.

Casting these mordant thoughts aside, however, her face removed any sign of despair as it melded to one of cold apathy. She glanced at the mirror, her right hand moving to the wig, righting it, just as her left removed the flawed wrinkles in her ivory gown.

_This is my farewell, Erik. Forgive me_, she thought sadly, a traitorous tear falling from a despondent eye.

Christine's dejected stare reflected itself within the mirror before she finally turned away, forsaking everything that lay beyond its foreboding gateway.

And just as gracelessly, she removed herself from the opulent room—sadly, for the last time—and felt only a remote sense of bittersweet sadness for leaving its sanctified confines. And once more, she was faced with her ill-fated dilemma. She would perform her very life upon the stage this night, if only to appease a man she could never save, a man who would die without her. And ironically, a part of her would die with him…the best part.

And with this tragic thought in mind, she righted herself, her face a perfect mask of refined beauty. The God-given grace she was blessed with showed profoundly within each purposeful step as she walked blindly towards her doom. For the abysmal curtain had finally been drawn away, revealing its hideous truth at last.

For deep within the part that was solely Christine Daaé, she knew that tonight was when her life—or death—would truly begin. Tonight, she would inevitably live with only the cruel fate of her choice by a mere turn of a beautiful bronze scorpion…

…

**Author's Note: I realise that this is indeed absolute crap, which could sadly be better. However, this is actually something of a prelude to one of my other multi-chaptered stories—_The Mask's Lament_, to be precise—and it actually fits with another one-shot: _Fall from the Angel's Grace_. I wanted to post this with it, seeing as the other story conveys Erik's thoughts and feelings as he reflects over Christine's betrayal. I had originally written this to stand alone, without the other one-shot, but found that it somewhat needed the aid of the other. Perhaps I will do something from Raoul's point of view sometime in the future. I just love this part in the book since we can only assume what happened between the rooftop scene and that of Christine's last night in playing Faust's Margarita. Oh, and Christine wearing a blonde wig was a tip of the hat to Leroux's novel, seeing as I cannot for the life of me imagine Christine being anything but a brunette. I complain of the 1967 animated film for that! ;)**


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